


Dreams I Have Had

by sumomomochi



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Frottage, M/M, POV Second Person, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, its porn it doesnt have to be historically accurate, probably no where near historically accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:18:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2174316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumomomochi/pseuds/sumomomochi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Steve,” you ask softly, “What do you want me to do?”</p>
<p>You’ll do anything he asks, you always have. He could tell you to leave and you’d do just that, no questions asked. His boldness takes you by surprise when he fumbles for your hand and places it neatly on his dick</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams I Have Had

You've shoved the bed against one of the inner walls of the tiny apartment you share with Steve. The few blankets you figured you could spare are nailed to the wall a couple feet above the mattress, tented over the bed to trap as much body heat as possible. Steve took one look at your construction and laughed until he coughed and coughed until he couldn't breathe, hard, horse, body wracking coughs that had you holding him upright until he caught his breath again. Eyes red rimmed and watering, he wheezed, "Treating me an awful lot like a princess, Buck," good naturedly.

You've long since herded him into your approximation of a canopy bed but it’s closing in on full dark. This winter feels colder than the last. You swear last winter was colder than the one before too and next winter will be worse than this one. Really, any weather is fucking awful so long as it means Steve is miserable.

The whole point of the blanket tent is to keep _your_ body heat in. You used to do the same when the two of you were kids and with how weak Steve is, how sick he's been already this winter and how sick he might yet be, it’s the only thing you can think of to keep his cough from getting worse.

With the sun fully behind the horizon, you don't have any excuse left to make. You finish heating up your shared dinner and duck under the edge of the hanging blanket. Steve's still up, breathing slow and steady if with an alarming rattle as he reads one of dime store novels borrowed from a neighbor. He smiles as he tucks his book away and sits up. He sounds like absolute shit when he takes the bowl you hand him and teases, "You shouldn't have."

"Yes I should; I've got no doubt your mother'll descend from heaven to terrorize me if I dare not take care of her baby boy, God rest her soul."

He smirks at you, a little too soft to be wry. You jostle him as you sit on the bed. You're shoulder to shoulder; you can't feel any heat coming off him and you're sure the thick sweater he's wearing is not to blame.

After you finish eating, you lay down behind him. He doesn't question it, just goes back to his novel with his back plastered against your chest, his perfect, bony ass nestled against your hips. You don’t remember when you actually fell asleep but you wake up to Steve struggling out from under the arm you draped across his waist. You pull away and help him sit up as he’s overtaken by another coughing fit. You fall back asleep the instant it’s over and the two of you lie down again.

The next time you wake up, it’s because Steve’s shivering hard enough to shake the bed. His sweater has that lingering chill that means he’s been out of bed -- probably to the bathroom. You squirm out of your shirt, shoving it under the covers to keep it warm for morning, then you tug at the bottom of Steve’s sweater to get him to do the same.

His skin doesn’t carry the same chill his clothes does, barring his icy fingers, but he still feels cold against your sleep warm chest. You press the back of your hand against his forehead automatically, relieved that his fever is either gone or low enough to not be noticeable. He swats your hand away wearily, grumbling, “I’m fine.”

You wrap all your limbs around him, pulling him tight against you, and make a vague noise in reply. He wheezes a laugh as he pulls the covers up to his chin. You tuck the edge of the blankets into the dip between your bodies, sealing him in.

Time stretches out as you doze with your arms wrapped around his skinny chest and your nose tucked against the nape of his neck. It’s a perfect eternity and you’re jolted out of it by the way Steve squirms in your arms. You loosen your grip immediately so he can sit up to suck in a breath or roll away to piss or hurl or whatever else his body demands. He doesn’t. He freezes. You gather your wits enough to take stock of your surroundings; Steve’s breath is raspy but largely even, his heartbeat is faster than it should be but you can’t feel any stuttering in it’s rhythm so you write it off as worry he’ll wake you. He’s just as warm as you are now, his back still pressed tight against your chest, one of his legs trapped under yours.

You’re half hard against his ass.

The two of you have an unspoken rule to not mention particular bodily functions which you latch onto as the perfect cover for your attraction. You’ve spent far too much time in close quarters with each other, too much time pressed together on a tiny mattress to stave off the cold in the shithole of an apartment you call home with its barely working heater to make a fuss over such a thing.

It’s different with his ass pressed firmly, _purposefully_ against your groin with his arm ramrod straight in a direction that suggests his hand is in his pants. You can’t help the sudden surge of interest that rolls through you and, try as you might, you _really_ can’t help the physical signs of your interest.

Steve sounds horrified when he whispers your name. It does a lot to temper your arousal. You make a carefully neutral noise of acknowledgement and he slumps in your arms.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you again,” he says, voice soft. He doesn’t pull away completely but you can’t miss the way his hips slide forwards, away from yours. You reel him back without thinking. The soft, surprised moan that pops out of him sets your blood on fire.

He stiffens against you again and you take a gamble, pressing your lips against the back of his neck. It’s unmistakably intimate. You can feel his pulse jump under your palm.

“Steve,” you ask softly, “What do you want me to do?”

You’ll do anything he asks, you always have. He could tell you to leave and you’d do just that, no questions asked.

You hear him swallow, feel the flush crawling down his neck. He doesn’t say anything but he hasn’t pulled away and you hope to God you haven’t misread him.

His boldness takes you by surprise when he fumbles for your hand and places it neatly on his dick. You press tighter against him, groaning in relief. His breath hitches and normally you’d be terrified of the sound but right now it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. This perfect, sickly, saint of a man is squeezing your bicep in a death grip with one hand, the fingers of the other still wrapped around your wrist and insistently pressing your palm against his groin.

You don’t need to be told twice to grope your way into his pants. He is, by and large, still soft when you cup your hand around his naked flesh. He doesn’t stay that way for long. Your gentle strokes bring him to life in your palm. 

“Good Lord, is this where everything I’ve been feeding you has gone?” you tease, not at all surprised at the size of him.

“Screw you,” he grumbles, hiding his face against the arm you have pillowed under his head.

You grin against his shoulder and say, “Sounds like a plan.”

He groans, exasperated, “I cannot deal with your sassy shit when your hand is in my pants.”

You laugh and rock your hips against him. He gasps obscenely, lungs rattling as his breath picks up. You keep your strokes gentle and even, despite how desperate you feel, unwilling to do anything to aggravate his delicate constitution. He lets you, for a good long while, breathing hard but steadily. You can feel the muscles in his stomach twitching against your forearm; there may not be much to him, but what he does have is solid.

“Buck, ‘m not gonna break,” he moans, voice tinged with desperation. You give him a firm squeeze that has him jerking into your grip and half laughing, “See?”

He reaches back and pulls your hips closer to his by your belt loops, grinding back against you before all but thrusting into your hand. You moan against the back of his neck, pressing sloppy kisses against his skin as he repeats the motion again and again. He’s practically fucking your hand, the way eased by the fat drops of precome that ooze out over your knuckles and the soft slide of foreskin. Your skin still catches at his but Steve doesn’t complain. It’s probably loads better than the rough treatment you’re getting from your trousers but the last thing you want to do is stop, even to readjust.

You lean into him heavily, trying hard not to fuck him into the mattress and failing spectacularly. At the very least, Steve doesn’t seem to mind. He moans with every breath as you curl around him, the leg trapped between his sliding up, the arm under him cradling his head. He feels even smaller than he actually is pinned half under you as you rut against him.

The way he whimpers your name has absolutely nothing to do with your weight on him and everything to do with how you come in your pants. You shiver through your comedown, keeping your fingers tight around him until he tenses up and chokes on air. His hand slaps down over yours, keeping you in place when your first instinct is to bolt up and take him with you. You feel the pulse through his cock seconds before his release spills out across your fingers. It’s more than enough to rekindle some interest from you.

You only get a moment to be in awe of what you just did before Steve struggles against you and you pull away so he can sit up. The view you’re presented with as you lay on your back next to him is worth the way your come slides wetly across your hip to pool under your ass, soaking through your clothes. Steve’s too thin and too pale, chest heaving with laboured breaths. His face is flushed and he looks almost feverish but his wet lips and half lidded eyes are fully those of the well fucked. The way his dick still hangs out of the top of his pants only helps. It’s a beautiful image.

He licks his lips and says, “So was it good for you too?”

You laugh loud and long.

“If I can’t sass you while we,” you tell him, skipping over any definition of what you just did, “you can’t sass me.”

He drops his eyes and catches his bottom lip between his teeth briefly before earnestly asking, “Did you…?”

The smirk you shoot him is filthy. His flush darkens but he looks hesitantly pleased.

You kick off your soiled pants, use the inside to clean off your hand, and pull him back down under the covers. The ease with which he melts against you soothes away any worries that things might change. The way he arches against you to brush his lips against your jaw corrects you; things have changed, tentatively for the better.


End file.
